


The Dark Whispers And I Will Answer

by TheAlchemistsDaughter



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dark!Rey, F/M, Rey Palpatine, TROS-divergent, TRoS Spoilers, cannon-divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAlchemistsDaughter/pseuds/TheAlchemistsDaughter
Summary: TROS Spoilers! Spoilers for Rise Of Skywalker!TROS-divergent.The dark awakened in Rey on Ach-To, but she's always fought it. She dreams of a throne she doesn't want. But when she has a vision of Ben dying after turning back to the light, she decides to take his hand and change their futures.Rey is unfortunately a P-word in this
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 107
Collections: Purrsonal Picks





	The Dark Whispers And I Will Answer

**Author's Note:**

> TROS SPOILERS!!!
> 
> This follows the cannon up to the Death Star fight. Sadly.

Luke was right.

She’d touched something that day on Ach-to. Something dark. It had called to her and she had gone to it. Maybe one Rey had gone down into that cave, and another of the hundreds had come out, the image in the mirror maybe. It had been there in the back of her mind as she had beaten Luke Skywalker back –  _ Luke Skywalker! _ – until he had been prostrate before her. It had been there, itching, as she spoke, even as she had believed she said it for all the right reasons.

“If I go to him, Ben Solo  _ will _ turn.”

Don’t they say that all Sith kill their masters? Snoke had not been her master, but she knows he would not have died if she had not gone. If she had not put herself before him, in harm’s way, a trap for Ben Solo to step into.

No. That’s not right. She hadn’t done that. It hadn’t been  _ her _ , it had just happened. It was Ben’s choice to kill Snoke… with Rey’s-  _ Luke’s _ lightsaber, which she had brought.

She had emptied the throne.

No. Ben had done that.

For her.

No. For him.

(For them?)

Because he was Supreme Leader, and she had run away. She was Resistance. She’d been training for a year. She wore white and floated rocks and listened to Leia and…

And when Ben had offered his hand, and her whole body had ached to take it, and her whole soul had reached like teeth for that  _ thing _ she wanted. Belonging… and power.

But she had said no, because it was the wrong thing to do, because Resistance ships were being blasted to bits just outside, and her friends were dying, and Ben, he- As much as he begged with his eyes, as much as she could feel his pain, there was still that red thread of burning anger in him. He was dangerous. He was dark. And Rey didn’t want to be that.

Not long after, the dreams started. The throne. Rey thought it had been guilt, or at least some sort of subconscious processing of what had happened. Snoke’s was the only throne she’d ever seen after all (but this was not Snoke’s throne she saw in her dreams, no) so that must be it.

The throne she dreamed of was huge, spiked, dark. She dreamed of Ben, and her. She dreamed of placing her hand in his, and ascending the steps to it. She dreamed of him, all black, gloved hands gripping the stone, knees spread wide, welcoming, inviting,  _ daring _ her. She dreamed of looking out from the throne as if she sat upon it herself, the stone thrumming with power under her, and feeling nothing but victory as she surveyed the ranks of cowed faces before her.

That wasn’t all she dreamed of, but she didn’t think of the rest. She just hoped they were dreams, and nothing Ben could see through their still-open bond.

The dreams come and go. They stay away the more she thinks on them, as if they only come to remind her, prompt her, when she forgets.

The war is fought. She gets to know Poe, Rose. She is normal. She trains. She is not happy, because it would be wrong to be happy in war, but she is more fulfilled than she has ever felt.

Ben tells her when he offers her his hand again, she’ll take it. He doesn’t know that it’s everything she’s afraid of, and something she dreams of, even when she’s awake.

Maybe something shows on her face. Maybe he takes it out of her mind. But he tilts his head in his infuriating mask and says “You see it too.”

Her breath halts. For a minute, everything is still, silent, waiting. He’s seen it too, the dream? It’s real?

No.

She ignites her saber. He is the dark one, and she is ready to fight him. She wants to fight him, not join him, so she’s not- She’s not dark, not like him. She won’t take his hand. There will be no throne.

Her swings are wild, and she destroys the pedestal holding Vader’s melted helmet, and the vision breaks, and she is alone, and she runs.

He catches her, barely. He tells her the truth.

The Emperor.

She is the granddaughter of the Emperor.

She wanted to know her place and now she does. She is the villain, and has been all along. She is the worm in the apple. She is the bad in the good. Maybe that’s why the Resistance hasn’t won the war, because she is with them, draining them, cursing them.

What does that make him? Her ally? Her  _ fate _ ?

Suddenly the darkness makes sense. It’s in her, born in her like blood. It’s who she is.

She detests it. It disgusts her. She hates herself, and fears herself.

He tells her they are a dyad in the Force, two who are one. She wants to say she knew that already because she can’t get rid of him, not in person, not the sight of him, not the thought or memory or dream of him, he is always, always there.

But she does not take his hand. She runs again, this time into the darkness, for answers, for a cure.

It presses in on her from all sides on the wreck of the Death Star, like the arms of a mother. It welcomes her as if it knows her. It waits for her.  _ She _ waits for her. Hooded, beautiful, terrifying. She sees herself in Sith robes, with a red saber, or is it two? Her heart feels ready to explode as she tries to defend herself, but the vision is barely trying, only demonstrating a fraction of her power, the power she  _ could _ have. She smiles at Rey, seductive, indulgent, teeth sharp, sharp, sharp.

When Rey stumbles free, he is there again, really there. He is not wearing his helmet. He picks up the wayfinder, tells her she will only find the Sith homeworld (with its powers, and its throne) with him, and crushes it in one hand. He dusts the glass from his glove.

Rey shrieks in frustration and rage. She is trying, she is trying  _ so _ hard, but he and the dark won’t stop pursuing her, dogging her every step. She swings her saber, but he just dodges, he doesn’t even draw his weapon.

When she catches her breath, he takes off his gloves.

Is this some Darksider trick? If it is, a voice whispers, perhaps she should learn it.

“What are you doing?” she pants.

“Let me show you,” he says. He holds out his hand to her, and she snarls again. She won’t take his hand, she  _ won’t _ ! She hasn’t been resisting, pushing down every dream for a year, to give in now. She charges him again, thinking she’ll cut the damn hand off. If he wants her to take his hand so badly, he can give it to her as a trophy.

But he dodges again, smooth as a shadow, and now his hand brushes the bare skin of her arm and suddenly heat rushes through her, and sensation, touch, under her clothes and a heavy breath sounds in her ear.

Gasping, she lurches free, frantically dusting the feeling away but there is nothing there. She looks at him, furious and terrified. The dreams. She didn’t want him to know.

He is still, and he reminds her so much of that day in Snoke’s throne room, when he had such tentative hope in his eyes.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he whispers, murmurs,  _ purrs _ .

“You don’t know what I want,” she spits.

“Yes, I do.” He is so sure. He matches his words with a nod, but there is no condemnation in his eyes, only that damn hope, that quiet beseeching, that  _ offer _ . He does not judge her for her dreams, dreams of his body, his mouth, his hands, his hair and her hands, her mouth, her body. He sees them, from her eyes or his, and accepts them as he has always accepted everything about her, and she beats like a pulse for him, hot and hungry.

She could break here, but she won’t. It’s not enough, not yet. She can bear more weight, more of this. She grips her saber again. “No.”

Another rush, another sweep through empty air as his body twists and then again, his hands on her and she is thrust into a dream, his mouth on her neck and sweat on their skin and an unbearable pressure, pleasure-pain, in her core. She gasps, or moans, or something, she isn’t sure, and drops her saber. Her hands don’t want it anymore, they want what he’s offering, his muscles under her fingers, his skin, his scars.

She knows, she knows he is not fabricating this. He has seen it, through her or in his own dreams. He is plagued by the same visions she is.

“It can be like this,” he offers.

She pushes him away, and he lets her. She staggers away to catch herself on the wall. “I- I don’t… It can’t.” She shakes her head. He is the Supreme Leader of the First Order. She is the last Jedi, the last hope for peace in the galaxy, she is- Leia-

As her breathing steadies, he approaches, cautiously, as if she is a wild animal. “Then show me. Show me what you want, if not that.”

She doesn’t put her hand out. She doesn’t move. She just holds still as he edges closer, big, dark, beautiful, a vortex of temptation. He smells like the sea, and wet wool. His hair is damp but still holding its shape for now, and what is it about him? Why can’t she feel this way about anyone else? Why does he feel like the only man in the universe for her? He told her they are a dyad, but what is that?

She doesn’t stop him as he slides his fingertips down the back of her hand, closing his fingers around hers. She feels a bridge between their minds open, but this time, no visions or sensations batter her. Instead, there is a gentle pressure, just prompting her to pour into it.

Slowly, she turns to him and meets his eyes. Dark, but soft, soulful, patient, imploring.

She can’t lie. Force, but she can’t lie. All she has to give him back are things he’s already seen, the physical joining, the tangling of flesh and  _ breaking _ of it all, that or the throne, but she knows he’s already seen the throne.

He asked what she wants, so she shows him. The flesh, and something softer, a gentler touch, lingering, slow, long. Comfort. Love. She shows him no darkness, no throne. That is what she wants. Regardless of what is inside her,  _ that _ is what she wants. Just a life, a normal life, rich with things she’s never had, including the bruising weight of his hips between her thighs and the impossible unbearable invasion of her body. Soft hands. Soft words. And deep, deep pleasure.

Not a dark man. Not a dark life. Not an emperor or Supreme Leader, no First Order, no war.

She shows him all of it with the tone of a question mark at the end of it. Is it possible for her? For them? She doesn’t think so, but it’s what she  _ wants _ .

Ben blinks, and she can tell she has surprised him, made him rearrange his view of things. But he lets his hand slip from hers, her imaginings fading from between them.

He swallows. “I can do that.”

She is already shaking her head. “No, you can’t, Ben, it’s not-”

“I  _ can _ .”

He’s not listening. She calls her saber back to her hand and he flinches, but when she holsters it on her belt he brings his eyes back up. She goes to leave, where she doesn’t know. He’s destroyed the wayfinder, and she needs to get to Exegol. She needs to kill the Emperor to carve that same darkness from herself, so she can deserve the life she wants, the life she showed him, a softer life, with love.

She tries to think of the answer. He follows her out as she knew he would. The sea crashes into the wreck, sending up spray, but the metal doesn’t move.

There’s no other way. She turns on him, her saber back in her hand, blade ignited. “You will show me the way to Exegol.”

He crooks a brow.  _ Damn _ him. She adjusts her stance, showing him she’s serious.

“Rey… We don’t need to go there. Come with me, and we’ll come up with a plan.  _ I’ll  _ go to Exegol-”

“No!” She won’t let him. Maybe it’s crazy, but she has to protect him from that, the poison that lives there and in her. She doesn’t want him to see it, the thing inside her, the thing that made her. She doesn’t want that hideous evil thing anywhere near him. “You have the last wayfinder. I want it. Give it to me.”

Slowly, his face shifts, hardening into something determined and defiant. “Never. I’ll never let you face him.”

What other choice is there? She rushes him and swings.

Maybe he thought she wasn’t serious, but this time he can’t dodge, and he has to draw his saber too, clashing with her. But he is serious too, something is making him fight harder than he ever has. Maybe he has just lost his patience with her, maybe he knows what’s inside her and how disgusting she is, how she doesn’t deserve soft touches and a better life, and her parents were right to leave her to burn in the sand where her evil couldn’t touch anyone else-

He is coming at her hard, beating her down onto her knees. He’s going to kill her before she ever has the chance to prove she is not her blood, not that  _ thing _ \- Then suddenly-

He’s looking over his shoulder. His saber slips from his hand. She grabs it and, without thinking, drives it into the opening he’s so carelessly left.

For the barest instant, she feels victory.

Then horror.

What has she done? This is  _ Ben _ , her Ben, Han’s son,  _ Leia’s _ son-

Leia.

A vacuum in the force, a shift in pressure as something, someone, leaves the living and-

Rey hates herself, horrifies herself.

Ben crumples, and she helps prop him up in a sitting position, hands fluttering over him. He’s still alive, and the wound doesn’t bleed but he is dying. He can’t breathe and he’s in pain, and she feels his regret, a lifetime of it. She can’t let this be it. She can’t let that wound, that strike exist anymore. She has to save him, show him she’s not- she didn’t-

She puts her hand to his sodden tunic and, no matter the cost, pours whatever it takes into him.

When she opens her eyes, he is struggling to breathe but only because he can’t believe what has just happened, and he looks at her as he finds his lungs working again. He is whole, even the scar on his face gone. He doesn’t know why she hurt him only to heal him, why she would sacrifice so much of her life force for him.

To answer is to take back a lie.

“I do want… everything you showed me.” It feels awful to say, and good, as if she is expelling an infection, as if something dreadful is coming out of her, so it is no longer inside. “I want to take your hand. But, Ben, I-”

Another vision. Her hand is still on his chest but now the tunic is gone, replaced by something thinner, thin enough to feel his body underneath, warm but cooling fast, fading. He’s not sitting, he’s lying, still. They’re not outside, they’re underground, and he’s- he’s… He’s not whole. He’s dying.

He looks different. His energy is different. Gone is that sadness and thread of red burning anger. He is calm, and at peace, and  _ good _ . He is not Kylo Ren. He is Ben Solo. This is Ben Solo, and he’s dead. Her lips still taste of his kiss, her belly still warm from his hand, his energy pulling her back to life.

This is the future. Their future, if they continue on the path they’re on. If she doesn’t join him in the dark, he will follow her into the light, and it will kill him.

The vision releases her and she looks at him, her mouth open in despair of what she’s seen. His death, even his imagined death, is a wound she can’t weather. It’s a crippling pain in her heart. Only the sight of him in front of her begins to heal it, the ache fading slowly as if  _ this _ is the vision, as if his existence is precarious and not to be trusted. She can’t make a noise. He watches her, his eyes puzzled, trying to read her, but clearly that was not a vision he shared. He doesn’t know what she’s seen. He just sits, letting her hand hold him in place, soaked, his hair drenched and stuck to him. She understands in that moment how precious he is to her. More important than anything else. She couldn’t live if he didn’t.

The decision feels like letting go, as if she has been hanging from a cliff and lets herself fall, as if she has had an animal pulling on the end of a rope and she lets it free. It is surrender, it is accepting her fate, it is relinquishing responsibility for the universe. Let things be what they will be. She will have him.

If she makes a noise it isn’t a word. She grabs his face as she swoops in, and kisses him, wet as they both are. His skin is chilled, his lips salty, and yet he is so  _ full _ . He pillows against her lips. Maybe he makes a noise too, but it isn’t a word either. After a moment, his hand presses against her back, pulling her closer.

It is only one kiss, she doesn’t know how to do more than cover his mouth with hers, but she makes it last as long as she can before she breaks away. She can feel his confusion. His mind flails as he tries to make sense of it. Is it a trick? Is it real? Is it a mistake? So Rey smiles, really smiles. And she  _ is _ happy. Clear in a way she hasn’t been in a long time.

“I want,” she begins, and it feels good to say it. Her wants are so many, as vast as the Jakku desert and just as unforgiving. Her lips curl, and she remembers sharp teeth, and she feels a fire start to burn in her, a hunger she can feel lighting her eyes. “Everything you told me. All of it. I want you, and I want-” She pauses, licks her lips as she considers everything in the universe, everything that could be hers. “I want a throne.”


End file.
